


maybe it'll be alright (it's perfect)

by privateerwrites



Series: These lines aren't wrinkles [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aramis has asthma, Baking, Challah Baking, Couch Cuddles, Cuddles, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Jewish Porthos, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29293512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/privateerwrites/pseuds/privateerwrites
Summary: Porthos is late coming home from work on a Friday and doesn't have time to make challah. d'Artagnan gives it a go, and while the result isn't perfect, it's very appreciated. ft soft couch cuddles and baking[part of these lines aren't wrinkles but, as always, can be read without the other parts]
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay/d'Artagnan/Athos | Comte de la Fère/Porthos du Vallon
Series: These lines aren't wrinkles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084148
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	maybe it'll be alright (it's perfect)

**Author's Note:**

> Porthos' texts are in italics, Aramis' are in bold!

Porthos sighs and closes the tab from his most recent conference. He glances at the time in the bottom right corner of his screen and groans, rubbing a hand through his hair. He pulls his phone out to text Aramis, resigned to the fact that he won't get home until 5pm and there likely won't be any challah tonight.   
  
Which is.... fine, he supposes. He can have the bread that Athos bought on Monday for his challah substitute with dinner, and it'll be okay, he can still do Shabbat.   
  
_I'll be home late, probably about 5. Sorry, love,_ he types to Aramis. Opening his next meeting, he pastes on a smile, and gets to work.   
  
Aramis' phone dings just as he goes to take a nap. He pulls it out of his pocket and glances down at the message from Porthos.   
  
**thank you** , he sends, and then adds a little blue heart to the end of the message.   
  
He forwards Porthos' text to d'Artagnan and Athos, and collapses into the couch in the living room, pulling his copy of _Around the World in 80 Days_ closer to himself.   
  
It's a beautiful book, leather-bound and old, older than something he would buy for himself normally, but it was a gift from Athos, and he loves it with all his heart. He falls asleep before he can even open it, cozy as he is right there, curled up with a blanket and a book.   
  
He wakes up to the soft clicking of the front door to the apartment. He hears Athos breathe gently, and he relaxes into his chair again.   
  
"Hello, darling," Athos says gently.   
  
"Hello," Aramis replies, yawning, his voice rough from sleep and lack of use throughout the day.   
  
He hears more than sees Athos set his bag down on the ground and wander towards where he's sitting. Aramis sets his book down on the side table and looks up at Athos. He sits down next to Aramis and begins to stroke his hair gently, a small attempt to make up for the fact that he'd woken Aramis from a nap he was clearly desperately in need of. Aramis flops his head over onto Athos' shoulder, and Athos winds his other arm around Aramis and pulls Aramis closer to himself.   
  
"Porthos is gonna be late," he mutters into Athos' shoulder.   
  
"I know," says Athos soothingly, gently detangling his hair with his fingers.   
  
"That means no challah," he says.   
  
"Yes," Athos murmurs into his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "It'll be alright."   
  
"Cuddle?"   
  
"Of course."   
  
Athos gently picks Aramis up into his arms and carries him into his bedroom, closing the door behind them with his foot and carefully putting Aramis down on the bed. Athos climbs in next to him, and Aramis curls his whole body into Athos' chest. They fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other.   
  
D'Artagnan decides, upon seeing Porthos' text, that he should make the challah. Or, at least, he should _try_ to make the challah. He checks in with Constance, and she rolls her eyes at him.   
  
"You've been making yourself a vest for the last half hour, d'Artagnan. There is _no one_ here. Stop wasting time and go home," she says strongly.   
  
D'Artagnan smiles.   
  
"Yes, ma'am."   
  
"Oh, now you're just making me feel old."   
  
"Right, yes, m-," d'Artagnan cuts himself off. "Yes, Constance."   
  
She shoos him out the door along with the vest he's been sewing (with his own thread, not Constance's, he knows better). He can hear laughter echoing through the shop as he leaves along with Constance's voice, and he knows that even with her mock affront, she's not upset with him.   
  
As d'Artagnan heads home, he scrolls through his phone to find the version of the recipe that Porthos sent him. It turns out that he has about five copies of it saved in random places, but he settles on the version that Porthos texted him about a week and a half ago.   
  
He walks into the apartment, closing the door quietly behind him and letting his bag slide to the floor with little consideration for the clang it makes as it sets down heavily. He peers around, but there's no sign of Aramis or Athos anywhere, despite their shoes and coats being set where they belong next to the door.   
  
"Hello?" he calls. There's no response, and he shrugs.   
  
_They're probably napping,_ he thinks.   
  
D'Artagnan removes his jacket and hangs it on the peg adjacent to Athos'. He toes off his shoes and walks to the kitchen quietly, his feet slapping gently on the floor.   
  
The first parts are easy- he grabs the flour and salt and puts the appropriate amounts into the bowl that he's seen Porthos use for this every time he's made it. Slowly, he adds the wet ingredients, and the dough forms around his spoon. Feeling rather satisfied with his creation, he sets it on the counter to let it rise for an hour.   
  
It rises just fine, and when he goes to punch it down it feels... alright, he thinks. He starts to separate it into four sections and that's when the trouble starts. None of the sections seem to be cooperating or forming up into snakes too well, and he's getting a little concerned. He adds more flour, hoping that it'll force them to hold their shape well enough that he can still braid them.   
  
Finally, he manages to wrangle them into something that resembles a mildly mangled braid, and covers it, setting it back on the counter. He's given up on the top braid, and so takes his fourth section and makes a smaller side braid and sets it next to the large one on the baking sheet.   
  
It's starting to spread into itself a little more than he'd like when he paints it with the egg wash 45 minutes later, but he shrugs it off and puts it in the oven, figuring that it'll probably be alright.   
  
Athos wanders out of his room when the bread really starts to perfume the apartment, and he blinks a couple of times, as if needing to bring d'Artagnan into focus.   
  
"Are you," Athos begins.   
  
"I'm making challah. For Porthos," d'Artagnan says, a little nervously.   
  
Athos ruffles his hair, kisses his forehead. "That's very kind," he says, a little tiredness creeping into his voice. Just then, the timer d'Artagnan had set goes off, and they both jump a little.   
  
D'Artagnan hurries to the oven, and when he opens it, his face falls. The whole thing has melted into a shapeless blob. The braid he'd worked so hard to get is gone, and now it looks like he just baked a snake. He bites his lip hard, and using his oven mitt, pulls the tray forward so that he can reach the bread. Using his non-mitted hand, he knocks on it, carefully at first, then a little harder when he thinks it sounds hollow.   
  
_It can still taste right_ , he thinks to himself desperately, and pulls it all the way out of the oven, setting it on top of the stove to cool.   
  
When he turns around, he discovers that Aramis is awake and setting candlesticks on the table for when Porthos does get home. When he sees the... mess that is d'Artagnan's challah, he presses his lips together and brings his fist to his mouth in an effort to cover his expression a little.   
  
D'Artagnan can feel the tears starting to well up in his eyes. It's just bread, he doesn't know why he's so emotional about this, but he just wanted to do something _nice_ for Porthos and now it's all a disaster.   
  
He's on his knees on the floor, properly sobbing now, his vision watery and fuzzy. He rubs away at the tears harshly, as if that will make them go away any faster, and then a gentle hand is stopping him and his rough shirt sleeve is replaced by a handkerchief gently dabbing at his eyes and he is pulled into Aramis' lap.   
  
"Shhh, shh querido, it's alright, shhhh." Aramis' voice is soothing to his nerves, and his tears slow down, as does his rate of breathing.   
  
"There you are," Aramis says. The two of them get to their feet together and Aramis pulls him into a hug, kissing his forehead gently. "You're alright, yeah? It's just bread." D'Artagnan nods mutely.   
  
"I- I just-"   
  
"I know, love. I know. He'll love it anyway, alright?"   
  
D'Artagnan tucks his face into Aramis' chest and Aramis lets him. He starts petting d'Artagnan's hair, and d'Artagnan melts into the comforting motion.   
  
Eventually, he pulls away, blinking slowly to adjust his eyes back to full focus. He takes a deep breath in and puts on a smile. Glancing up at the clock on the wall, he sees that it's 4:45pm; Porthos will be home soon.   
  
He slides the challah off of the tray and onto the challah board, covering it with the challah cover. The table looks pretty good, he thinks, and his smile gains a little more of a genuine tilt to it. His breathing is still a little shaky, and he focuses on that for a few moments as he sits at one of the bar stools across the counter from the kitchen and watches Aramis start to make dinner.   
  
Aramis cooking is mesmerizing, and d'Artagnan almost misses Porthos entering their home, entranced as he is.   
  
"Hello," drawls Athos in the direction of the door, not looking up from his book, and d'Artagnan is startled out of his Aramis-centric daze.   
  
"Hello," Porthos says brightly. "Happy Friday."   
  
Aramis leaves the sauce he's stirring to press a kiss to Porthos' temple before moving back to his pot, keeping a close eye on what he's cooking. Porthos goes to kiss the top of Athos' head, but Athos lifts his face up and catches Porthos' lips with his own in a gentle kiss. He whispers something to Porthos, and Porthos' face lights up with a smile.   
  
"Welcome home," d'Artagnan says, just as he's swept up into a large hug. "Missed you," he mumbles into Porthos' shoulder. Porthos squeezes him a little tighter.   
  
"I, uh, I made challah. For- for you," he says carefully as he's released from the embrace. "It's not very good."   
  
"I'm sure it's perfect, pup."   
  
D'Artagnan chuckles a little nervously. "We'll see about that." Aramis shoots him a look, the same kind he gives Athos when he's on his self-deprecating bullshit, and d'Artagnan shuts up.   
  
Porthos takes the seat next to him, and together they watch Aramis cook, enraptured by his grace and skill. He's dancing along to music in his head, and d'Artagnan wonders what it is that he hears that makes him dance so. It's one of the great mysteries that he hopes one to one day unravel simply by virtue of knowing Aramis well enough to understand the music that plays in his head when he cooks alone.   
  
Eventually, Aramis dips a tasting spoon into the sauce, tips it into his mouth after blowing on it for a few moments, and smiles. He lifts the pot of sauce and dumps it, rather unceremoniously, over the noodles he's had sitting in a bowl for a couple of minutes now and tosses it all together. He carries it to the table and sets it down with a heavy _thud_.   
  
"Dinner!" he calls, and Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan all take their seats at the table. Aramis turns out the lights, and the light of the match hisses out of the darkness.   
  
D'Artagnan feels a sense of peace settle over himself as he is pulled into the blanket of Porthos' prayers, warm and soothing and gentle. He almost forgets entirely about how bad the challah is, and so when it's uncovered, he cringes perhaps a little harder than he would have if he'd been more prepared. Porthos just keeps going, and d'Artagnan relaxes a little- at least it isn't so bad that Porthos can't ignore it. It takes a little too much effort to pull it apart, and d'Artagnan grimaces when he sees the internal structure of the bread, because it's all wrong.   
  
He sinks his teeth in, expecting the flavor to be as much of a disaster as the rest, but to his surprise, it isn't bad. He won't go so far as to say it tastes _right_ , because even to his inexperienced palette, it doesn't, but it's definitely edible.   
  
Aramis turns the light back on, and the hush that'd fallen over the table is gone, replaced by gentle chatter.   
  
"Thank you," Porthos says across the table to d'Artagnan.   
  
"It's not good," he mumbles. Porthos sighs.   
  
"You've never done it alone, d'Artagnan, and you didn't set anything on fire and it tastes fine. You did very well," Athos says, and Porthos nods in agreement.   
  
"I thought I was goin' to have to have store-bought white bread tonight, pup. I didn't, and that's 'cause of you. _Thank you_ ," he says, and d'Artagnan nods.   
  
"You're welcome," d'Artagnan mutters softly.   
  
"There you are," Porthos grins.   
  
Aramis regales them with a winding and unnecessarily detailed summary of the part of _Around the World_ that he's currently on. Athos, in turn, tells them about the very exciting day he had taking inventory, and Porthos grumps about his meetings and how they kept him from being at home. D'Artagnan, for his part, is content to just listen to them, letting their voices wash over him.   
  
Slowly, they all migrate away from the table and onto the couch. Athos offers to read aloud, and is excitedly taken up on that offer by everyone. He picks up a small, thin book and starts to read.   
  
D'Artagnan is sitting on the floor, his head against Porthos' thigh. He lets his eyes close and his breathing slow, and little by little, he falls asleep, Porthos' hand in his hair, Athos' words lulling him into calmness, their presence keeping him safe.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes this is inspired by a baking mistake I've made. If anyone is wondering what went wrong, he forgot to add the sugar!
> 
> Comments and kudos are really appreciated!
> 
> I'm also on Tumblr at privateerstudies if that's more you thing!


End file.
